A Simple Duel
by Romula1
Summary: Faramir and Boromir always get on well, but their competetive sides affect them when Denethor comes to watch them practice - Faramir is about 20, making Boromir 25. Very short ficlet.


His breath began to come more quickly, a ragged note accompanying it. The fight was lasting much longer than the last one had - they had both been practising hard. They didn't duel like this often, because there was always the risk of actually doing some serious damage, but their father always liked to see how their skills progressed, and there was no better way to judge them than by watching one son fight the other.  
  
Faramir felt himself giving ground as the metal blades clanged and clashed. When duelling, Boromir lost the jovial brotherly playfulness that he usually treated his younger brother with and became wholly concentrated on proving himself to his father. Faramir was aware that he himself also became more desperate in a fight when Denethor watched, but unlike Boromir, the nerves that ensued made him freeze up, become hesitant.  
  
Boromir slashed and Faramir blocked; Boromir wheeled his sword up above him, about to crash it down and Faramir raised his own blade, forcing Boromir to change his attack. One brother tried the other's left side; the other leaned aside and made a low, sweeping slash. The younger jumped above the sword and made to counter attack; the older blocked the counter attack and drew a swift cut across the younger's right biceps.  
  
Faramir hissed and made another attempt at attacking as his arm began to sting. Boromir had eased off for a moment, concern and a little regret showing in his grey eyes as his brother's pale sleeve became slick with blood around the wound. Faramir pressed this advantage, driving Boromir backwards and wishing he could see his father's expression. Boromir gave ground almost to the other end of the courtyard where they fought, and he stumbled under his brother's wide-eyed, intense stare. Faramir brought his sword around, preparing to align the point with Boromir's throat and claim victory for once.but as his older brother leaned backwards on the wall with one arm, the other holding the sword hanging by his side, pity stirred in Faramir's heart. Boromir looked questioningly at him, then glanced over his shoulder. Faramir did not see Denethor's bitter shake of his head, and did not see the nod he gave to Boromir, but he did see his brother's sword arm rise once more.  
  
Boromir had his resolve and determination back, his love of physical challenge surging through his veins. Faramir almost fell backwards across the court, letting Boromir drive him so quickly that his tired feet could no longer keep up with his increasingly wild blocks. Finally he toppled backwards, landing heavily on the dry stones. His sword hand still gripped the weapon, but it felt bruised and weak, for he had been holding the handle tightly to stop the sweat on his palms from causing a mistake. Boromir laid his sword point briefly and gently on Faramir's heaving chest, but then whisked it away and extended his left hand to his brother, saying warmly, "I thought you had finally caught me, little brother."  
  
"I had not the heart to finish you," Faramir admitted, lifting a hand to Boromir's. However, before he could be pulled to his feet a brittle old voice intruded.  
  
"That is why you would now be dead. Leave him, Boromir, in a battle you would not help dead orcs to their feet," Denethor walked slowly over to his eldest's side and looked down at Faramir, who grimaced up at Boromir's apologetic look. "Get up, son, let me see that wound," he commanded.  
  
Faramir tossed his long, sweat-soaked hair away from his eyes and carefully propped himself up to a sitting position. He gingerly parted the ripped material with his left hand, the crimson liquid that covered both it and his skin making this a difficult task when wearing gloves, as the wet cotton tended to stick to everything.  
  
"I said get up, let me see it," Denethor growled, and Faramir climbed to his feet and gazed at his father's scornful expression with resignation. The old Steward hooked a pair of long fingers into the tear in his son's shirt and pulled hard. The sleeve came off with a noise that made both brothers cringe - it seemed to sum up their father's mood completely. None too gently, Denethor rubbed the coarse material over the gash, cleaning the majority of the blood away before more could pore forth. Faramir ground his teeth together in discomfort as Denethor used the same cloth to tie around his muscled arm. With a brisk yank, he pulled the knot tight, causing Faramir to gasp despite himself and sway a little on the spot as the corners of his vision blacked out for a second. Denethor noticed his youngest's hurt and looked at him in disgust. "Get thee to the Houses of Healing. I want both my sons ready and in full armour in two hours from now - the army at Osgilliath needs thy leadership, Boromir and I need thee, Faramir, out of my sight and my citadel for the present."  
  
Faramir nodded, and both men gave the obligatory "thank you, father," before gladly leaving the courtyard.  
  
"I would accompany you, dear brother, but I must make ready - I have maps and thoughts to gather," Boromir said softly, patting Faramir's left shoulder reassuringly. Faramir merely nodded wearily and turned to take the path that lead to the lower levels of the city. Boromir paused before heading in the opposite direction. "Faramir.are you alright?"  
  
"I am," Faramir said stoically over a shoulder, looking long at his brother for a moment. He then turned and trudged on, leaving Boromir watching after him, thinking of the emotional beating his father gave him at every opportunity, and of the challenges ahead that they may meet at Osgilliath. 


End file.
